No shit, kid. Wasn't much older than you, the first time I was burned.

[ He digs out his cigarette, brings it up to his mouth. The hand matches, though it's not nearly so bad-- burned patches on his fingers, knuckles, hand, where he touched his face as it burned, where he let acid trickle over his knuckles when he burned himself, years later, to return to what he knew he was: Two-Faced. ]

Scars are your story. They tell the truth about what you are, what you endure. Don't let anybody take them away.